


La Vie En Rose

by ancient_annd_forever



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-10 23:45:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3307634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancient_annd_forever/pseuds/ancient_annd_forever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his parent's divorce, John Watson's father had moved the family, forcing John to begin again. Sherlock Holmes has been living in the same place his entire life, but he hasn't made one friend. In their last year of high school, the boys form a bond that brings a light to both of their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome to Lancaster

**Author's Note:**

> It's pretty much just teenlock. I'll update as often as I can, but I'm a busy human. Also, the rating might change.  
> Sorry for any mistakes. I'm American, and I don't have anybody to help me edit this.

Out of every disastrous attempt mankind has made to create a better world, public schools have to be the most flawed. The noise, the people, the stupidity. All of it only proved how doomed humanity really was. And no, that wasn't an exaggeration. Leaving home to suffer through hour after hour of “education” had slowly scraped away any remaining hope for the future of this species. But even after making it through years of hell, there was one more to go.

“Sherlock! You're going to be late if you don’t hurry.”

He only slumped back in his seat and glared out the window. Maybe if he didn't speak, she'd leave him alone. She noticed very little. Still, his mother opened his bedroom door and scowled. “Would you stop moping and-”

“I'm not moping!” Sherlock huffed. His mother sighed deeply and looked to the ceiling. “Sherlock, come on,” she looked back at him with pity. “It’s your first day. You should be excited.”

He snorted. “Right.”

“Enough of that.” She put her hands on her hips. “You are going to school.”

“Can’t I just be home schooled?” Sherlock through his hands up.

“Absolutely not!” His mother said too quickly in a defensive tone.

Sherlock eyed her suspiciously. “Why not?” He knew the reason, but he hated that she refused to say it.

“Look, Sherlock, it won’t be that bad. You’re making a big deal out of nothing. I promise you, it will be okay.” She tried to sound calm, but the words came out quick in her attempts to change the subject.

Sherlock turned his chair and faced her properly. “No,” He told her. “Tell me why I can’t be home schooled. What could I get at school that I couldn't possibly have here?"

“I won’t have you end up like one of those…” She paused, then shut her mouth.

“Freaks?” Sherlock finished for her.

His mother crossed her arms and sighed again. “I just want you to have friends, Sherlock.” Pity and concern stuck to each word.

Sherlock stood up and grabbed his backpack. “I don't need friends,” he spat.

Stomping out of his room and down the steps, he could practically hear the despair his mother felt.

Sherlock turned away and stormed out the front door. He heard his mother shout something, but he was too distracted with the thought of returning to school to listen. Lancaster was quite possible the worst place on the planet. The students hated him and his teachers had limited sympathy. He tried not to care. Most of them were stupid anyway. That the was the real reason he hated the place. Despite it being a private school, stupidity and ignorance floated freely throughout the halls, infecting students and adults alike. Sherlock was certain this year would be no different from the rest. He would rarely eat, rarely sleep, and constantly be bored. Not to mention the inevitable punches every time he dared say something offense and undeniably true to the animals that he was trapped with.

Sherlock grunted as he crossed the street, reaching the school parking lot. Students were filling into the building, each one looking their very best. For whatever reason, they felt the need to look good on the first day. Although, they could only go so far, seeing as there was a school uniform. Sherlock was ready to ignore the rules, but his mother insisted that he get in less trouble this year or else she wouldn't get him new chemistry equipment. Unfortunately, that meant he had to wear the dark pants, white dress shirt, and blue tie. There was also the choice of a navy blue jumper, which Sherlock opted not to wear. Despite the cold, he had rolled his sleeved up to his elbows.

As he walked through the blue double doors, he pulled his schedule out. A-15. Chemistry. It was an advanced course, and no doubt Sherlock's favorite. He knew most of the material, but he was eager to spend at least one hour here doing something he actually enjoyed.

Making his way past the various halls, labeled A-F, he noticed that his locker was in B hall, but he didn't open it. It being the first day, very little was needed from Sherlock. Every teacher would go through the same rules and pass the same sheets for parents to sign, as if families were agreeing to the Terms of Service of the school. Except, in this case, students are forced to attend school and therefore forced to agree to the rules. The teachers then made students to sign documents that only made them more aware of their limited freedom. Sherlock pondered the thought for a moment, and dropped it. The idiots that surrounded him were unlikely to notice their place as sheep.  
The first bell rang.

Students quickly filled classes, and Sherlock, knowing there was still five minutes, took his time. He glanced down at his schedule again as he turned the corner into A-Hall. He hardly got a proper look at the paper when he rammed into a body. Sherlock's head snapped up to see teenage boy, roughly his own age, looking shocked. It was obvious he was new, but due to his age, he was most likely a transfer student.

"Sorry," the boy mumbled, snaking a hand through his blond hair, causing it to stick out of place. He was distressed, probably because he was lost. "Hey, uh, do you know where," He looked to his schedule, then back up. "Mr. Fielder's class is? A-16?"

Sherlock wasn't surprised that he didn't know, but the boy obviously walked by the class just moments ago. All he had to do is pay attention.

"This is A-Hall. That's biology." He pointed to a door that was just a few steps away.

The boy's eyes widened and blushed a little. "I'm so stupid." Sherlock didn't argue.

"Thanks," he told Sherlock just as the two minute bell rang. He watched the boy rush into the classroom before he walked into his own. Sherlock took the seat closest to the door and prepared for the first boring day of many.  
  


 

 

Chemistry had dragged on, but the teacher, Mrs. Winthrop, was very interested in the subject, and that meant the year would be filled with experiments and actual learning. Sherlock was relieved and a little excited. Now, however, it was time for his art class. He had been avoiding most of the boring subjects until the last minute, but art credits were required. He’d taken painting or something. He didn’t really care to remember.

Sherlock looked back to his schedule and read the room number. B-23, sculpture with Mr. Kipton. He shrugged, and drifted to the classroom. He always took his time getting to class, especially because it meant he wouldn’t have to there just a few more minutes.

By the time the two-minute bell rang, he was walking inside. The room was large and incredibly messy. The rectangular tables took up most of the space, with stools on each side of them, but the walls were lined with long black counters. These contained a sink on three sides of the rooms, and a row of cabinets parallel to the counters. Everything made of wood was filled with scratches and holes, many of which were stained with paint and clay. The seats were old metal stools that made Sherlock wonder whether or not they safe to sit on. Rust covered their legs and the tops had been painted over. Sherlock found his seat close to the door and waited. Looking in front of him, he saw a large desk for the teacher, and room in the back. Mr. Kipton sat at his computer, obviously playing a game.

Students walking glanced at Sherlock and stayed as far away from him as possible. He sat alone as his table with three empty seats. One beside him, and two in front. He didn’t mind.

Just as the last bell rang, a boy walked in the room. It was the new student who had run into Sherlock. He looked relieved to have found his way here in time. He took a quick glance around the room before noticing Sherlock and the empty seats around him. He sat across from Sherlock and smiled. “Hey, you’re the guy I ran in-”

“I know.”

The blond smiled. “Uh, yeah. Sorry about that. I was kind of in a rush. I’m new.”

Sherlock nodded, but said nothing.

“I’m John,” he tried again.

Sherlock didn’t reply. He wasn’t here to make friends, especially with rugby players with family issues and a desperate need to be liked.

When the athlete received no answer, he shifted away from Sherlock with a frown.

“Alright. Good morning,” The teacher greeted. “I’m Mr. Kipton. I know most of you already, but there a few fresh faces.” He smiled. “Anyway, I know the first day is always boring, so I’m going to mix it up a little bit. When I call your names, tell me one thing you like to do in your freetime.” He sounded excited but the feeling was not mutual. Teachers seemed incapable of understanding the basic idea that teenagers did not want to speak in front of the whole class, especially about themselves. Regardless, the pudgy man lifted a clipboard to his face and began to read off names. “Diane Ash?”

An awkwardly tall girl with dark hair answered, “Here. Uh, I-I like to read.” She smiled nervously and looked down, desperate to get eyes away from her. Of course, the stares lingered. She was pretty, and that was all it took to keep both lusting looks and jealous glares on her.

“Jack Carter?”

“Here. I like videogames.” His words were almost hard to hear over his bright red hair. He was hunched over, holding his head up with his hands.

The list kept going as people rattled off silly activities. Then, Mr. Kipton paused and grimaced when he saw the next name. “Sherlock Holmes,” he sighed, as if the it were exhausting to say.

Sherlock, though reluctant, answered, “Here. I enjoy chemistry.” He would have preferred talking about crime, but he doubted they would even understand.

Mr. Kipton quickly moved on. The blond, however, was watching Sherlock.

“What?” Sherlock whispered.

The boy blinked and looked away. “Nothing. Just… Sherlock. Odd name.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“John Watson,” Mr. Kipton called. “Oh, you’re new, right?”

John straightened his spine. “Yeah. Transferred over from Whitfield.”

The teacher smiled. “Great school. Ours is even better. And what is something you like doing in your freetime?”

“I like rugby.”

“Are you going to try out for the team this year?”

“Yes, I am.” John nodded confidently.

Mr. Kipton nodded back and told him, “Well, good luck, and Welcome to Lancaster.”

“Thank you, sir.” John smiled politely, but Sherlock knew it was fake. It was always easy to tell.

The last few students gave their name and hobby, and with that finished, Mr. Kipton told the class, “Alright, so I don’t have a lot rules. Just instructions. So, I’m going to pass out some papers for you and your parents to sign. Then, I’ll give just a few worksheets with basic art terms you’ll need to know for the quiz you’ll have next week.” Some of the students began complaining, but Mr. Kipton raised his voice to silence theirs. “Hey! I have one big rule, and it’s on the door.”

He pointed to a large, white sign taped to the open door that read, “NO WHINING” in bright red letters. There were actually several of these signs plastered on the walls. The messages varied from “NO BULLYING” to “LEARNING IS A SPORT, SO LETS PLAY”. Teachers put these up as encouragement or something. Maybe it was silent brainwashing, or maybe they just did it because every teacher did.

When Mr. Kipton passed the papers out, he allowed student to work for the rest of class. This sparked conversation among students, most of whom ignored the assignment. When they got their papers, Sherlock got straight to work, but the blond only took one look at his sheet before focusing on Sherlock.

“So, you like art?”

Sherlock looked up frowning. The boy, whose name he’d already forgotten, was watching him expectantly.

“No,” Sherlock replied. He tried to refocus on the assignment, but again, the boy spoke.

“I do. I’m not any good, but I like it.”

He waited for an answer that Sherlock refused to give. Why didn’t he just shut up?

Sherlock could see some students glancing over because it was apparently such a rare sight to see another seat filled at a table where Sherlock sat.

“You said that you like chemistry,” the blond noted. “Who’s your teacher?” There was an awkward silence until the boy told Sherlock, “You know, you can talk.”

When he heard a girl a snicker at this attempt to make conversation with Sherlock, he sighed deeply and told John, “I don’t want to. In fact, I'd really love it if you’d shut up.” Sherlock glared into the stranger’s eyes. They were a blue that Sherlock had never seen before. It was almost alarming.

The boy dropped his gaze and said, “hey, it’s fine. I was just trying to be nice.”

Sherlock didn’t even acknowledge him. He only looked back to the page beneath him. Nice? Why? He forced himself to push the thoughts away and return to work.

“Sorry,” the blond spoke again. “if I offended you, I mean.”

Sherlock blinked at his page. As far as he could see, the boy didn’t have anything to be sorry for. Sherlock took a moment to consider the possible reasons for the apology, but he came up empty handed. Nothing the blond said was remotely offensive, and he could imagine a way in which any human could interpret it as such. Sherlock settled on the fact that he’d never understand human interaction.

Still, feeling as though he had to say something, he offered,“It’s...okay.”

The boy watched him in silence and then concluded, “Oh, I see. Bad first day, bad mood. If it makes you feel better, mine wasn’t great either. I’m sure they’ll get better.”

Sherlock scoffed. “This is Lancaster. There are no better days.”

“I don’t believe that,” he replied. “It can’t be that bad. I mean, compared to my last school, this place seems pretty great.” Sherlock added naive to this boy’s description.

He looked up. “The students are idiots, the teachers aren’t much better, the lunches are atrocious, and classes, as well as the library, are small and inadequate.”

The boy nodded. “Okay,” he answered skeptically. “Well, I think I’ll form my own opinion if you don’t mind.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, and the blond didn’t speak again. He didn’t seem mad, but he was probably realizing how much he didn’t like Sherlock, and that didn’t surprise him in the least. He may have seemed friendly, but the rugby player was no better than the mindless popular kids that Lancaster never ran out of. Soon enough, he’d be the most popular boy in school, aside from that other guy. Sherlock didn’t remember his name either.

The rest of the week continued with silence. The boy didn’t speak, which pleased Sherlock, but it left a bit of uncomfortable silence. It was like they had an unfinished conversation, which Sherlock supposed was true, but it shouldn’t have been creating such an awkward atmosphere. It was only made worse with the boy’s glances at Sherlock. They were harmless, but annoying as hell. He didn’t mind if another person hated him, but he’d appreciate it if they didn’t express their disdain in looks. It was tedious enough sitting across from a new kid, but the boy’s unspoken interest was driving Sherlock crazy. Still, he never said anything about at the risk of starting another conversation. He’d just have to endure it until the boy decided that he had enough of Sherlock. That shouldn’t be long.

 

 

When the weekend finally did arrive, Sherlock got some real work done. He started a new experiment on the decomposition of various types of potatoes. Sitting on his bedroom floor, he set everything up. He had to keep this one a secret. After the whole 'milk incident,' he felt as though he may be punished even harsher for this.  
Just as he began to record the first set of information, his mother called for him. Before leaving his room, he stared at his potatoes one more time, longing to stay where he was. When he heard her shout again, he slid up and trudged downstairs.

When she saw him, his mother smiled as softly as she could. Her lips fell as gripped her cup of coffee tighter. “Sherly, can I talk to you?”

“What do you want?”

“No, this isn’t about me,” she paused. “I… I’m worried about you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Obviously. What do you want?”

She was stiff in her chair. “Well, you remember my friend that came by here yesterday? Elaine?”

“Of course.” He didn’t remember.

“Right, so she’s a…” She dropped her eyes to the coffee.

“A therapist.” Their words came out at the same time. She met Sherlock’s eyes again and watched his widen.

“Yes,” she said. “I-Sherlock, I think it’s best if you meet her, just to talk.” Her words sped up. “I mean, it might help with what you’ve been feeling lately. I know things have been hard since you started school, your new classes are putting stress on you, and you don’t like the people there, and your father-”

“Stop,” he demanded, still trying to process the information. “I don’t need a therapist,” he argued, but his mother’s frown only deepened. He was telling the truth. Why couldn’t she see that?

“Sherlock, I know what you’re going through at school.” She leaned forward. “It’s only been one week, and you've gotten into three fights.”

He was trying hard not to shout. He had gotten bruises while the boys had walked away unscathed, and yet she still was willing to call it a fight.  
“Those weren’t my fault.”

“And I’m not blaming you. But, Sherlock, you have to realize why I’m worried. You can only go through so much emotional toil before you need some help.” Before he could correct her, she finished with, “Look, I know you don’t want to see her, and I understand, but can I ask that you to at least meet with her once? Only once. Just to see if you like her.”

Sherlock didn't want to. So rarely had he wanted anything less than therapy, but he also didn't want the constant pressure from his mother to do it. Plus, he had been a bit too cold to his mother recently. He knew he was one more door slam away from facing his mother’s wrath. He couldn't bring himself to speak, but he answered with a short nod.  
His mother’s face gleamed.

“Oh, Sherly, thank you!” Her jumped from her seat to hug him, but he darted upstairs before she could take her first step.

“Monday,” she shouted from below. “7:00.” She thought about it for another moment and said, “in the afternoon.”


	2. Monday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is establishing the fact that he has a weird new life in a weird new school with weird new people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mentioned that I change the POV between Sherlock and John?
> 
> Also, any confusing bits will be explained.
> 
> And I apologize for the late update. I've been busy with school. So, instead of studying for a history test, I wrote this.

The dream had started the same. He was in his mother’s house, sitting in front of a round table, watching steam from a cup of tea rise to the ceiling. He turned his head to see his sister. She was staring at the table with a solemn expression. Her head lifted and she urged him to go upstairs. “Go see her, John,” her lips moved, but the sound wouldn’t come out, and somehow, he understood her.

He rose from his wooden seat, and turned towards the hallway. The floorboards should have been creaking under his weight, but with step, silence pressed heavier against his head. He reached the stairs and looked up. The seemed to go on forever, stretching out into a dark haze.

 _Knock._   
_Knock._

There was soft murmur around John. He looked around, but he didn’t see anything. He faced the the stairs again when louder knocks broke the dream.

“John!”

He jumped up and whisked his head around the room.

“Finally. You must been up late last night. Slept right through your alarm.” His dad was leaning into his room with a hand on the doorknob. “Come on,” he said. “you're gonna be late.”

“It’s Monday?”

His dad laughed. “Yeah, it’s Monday. Now get up.”

John's door shut with a click. Early light leaked through his curtains, leaving a haze of color in the room. It was near silent aside from a weak hum. It was tempting to fall right back asleep, but as the smell of bacon drifted under the door, John took in a weak breath and used the scent to push himself out of bed.

 

As soon as John entered the kitchen, his father shoved a white plate in front of him and said, “Good morning."

After  mumbling out a “thank you,” John reached for the food and sat down at the kitchen table. It had only been roughly two weeks, and everything still looked so new. The floor was still cluttered with boxes, most of which hadn’t even been open yet. John didn’t bother himself to help unpacking. This place didn’t feel like home, not to John.

"So," his dad prompted, sounding slightly nervous. "How has school been?”

John's chest began to ache. He pushed the bacon around on his plate and silently hoped that this conversation would not continue. There had been enough, right? They had enough pointless, uncomfortable talks centered around John and Harry?

“John?” No, apparently not.

“It’s been one week, Dad,” he said, trying to move this along. “Not much has happened.”

His dad nodded as if he actually understood. “John, I don't want to pressure you," he said calmly, but it sounded too uneasy to be reassuring. "I just want things to be better here than they were-”

“I know,” John bluntly interrupted. He and his dad had agreed to ‘put it all behind them,’ but here they were, talking about it. John took control of himself, softened his voice, and repeated, “I know." He met his father's gaze. Just a few weeks ago, those brown eyes would light up a room. Now, they just looked tired.

"I’m gonna do better this time," John promised.

Starting today, actually. Yes, it’s true that he still had not made any friends, and yes, his one attempt at a friend ended poorly, but John was determined to change that. Rugby tryouts guaranteed friends, a career, and a place to fit in. John thought about how much he could use any of that right about now.

 

*******

 

John was trying to listen. He really was, but Mr. Kipton’s monotone voice made is so incredibly easy for John to let his eyes flicker over to the clock. Any second now, the bell had to ring. Any second… John could swear time was slowing down. He looked back to his teacher, who was still talking about color. Nothing there. He glanced across the table where Sherlock sat. He wasn’t listening either. Instead, he was watching a sheet a paper in front of him. Kipton didn’t seem to care if Sherlock did his homework in class, but he would bust anybody else who tried it. John didn’t see what made him so special. He had almost said hi to the boy again, but John decided against it when he watched a potato fall out of Sherlock’s backpack. Nothing special at all.

Still, John was a little bit curious about the guy. He was quiet, rude, and a little bit strange, but he held this confidence that made John wonder if he had the secrets of the universe tucked away under that mop of curly hair. He always sat up rigidly straight and almost never paid the slightest bit of attention to Kipton. He was always working on something, he never spoke, and nobody would even look at him. It was like he stood above everybody else. He even looked like it. His skin was so pale, John wondered if he was eating enough, but it contrasted beautifully with the rest of him. His dark curls that weren’t quite black, but definitely not brown were just a bit too long, resting just above his eyebrows. His lips were a light pink and looked like that they were completely flawless. His nose, his cheekbones, and his jaw were sharp enough to cut glass. As if to complete the look, his eyes were an unsettling shade of grey that was etched with green. He himself looked pretty flawless. John didn’t understand why he wasn’t surrounded by people, mainly girls. John then thought back to the boy’s reserved nature, but it didn’t explain much.

How was it still warm in here? It was getting colder outside everyday, but it was like Mr. Kipton turned the heat up to an unholy degree.

The bell rang. John felt a jolt of happiness run through and he jumped out of the class.

*******

 

John ended up being late for lunch. His chemistry teacher had held him up to explain material that John just couldn’t understand. As he made his way to through the empty halls, John spotted Sherlock at his locker. He wasn't looking for the boy, but his attention was caught when he saw two other people standing in front him, looking like they were going to attack him. They were clearly taunting him, but Sherlock didn't seem frightened in the least. He looked bored, mostly. John was surprised to see so much control in that guy, even when it was clear that he had none.

He saw one of the boys shove Sherlock back into his locker and spit some insult into his face. John looked for somebody to help the boy, but they were alone in the halls. If he didn’t do anything, nobody would. He hurried to the boys. When he reached them, he received a confused look from Sherlock. John tried to focus on the bullies, but Sherlock's piercing eyes bore into John's. The other boys turned to see what Sherlock was watching.

“Got a problem?”

John teared himself away from Sherlock’s gaze. “Yeah, I do. What do you think you’re doing?” He took a step closer and glanced at Sherlock again, this time to ensure his safety. There was a small cut on his mouth, but other than that, he looked fine. He also held a surprised expression that let John know that he wasn't used to receiving help often.

“What are you then, his boyfriend?”

The other laughed. “Like anybody want to be with Sherlock.”

“Right." He eyed John for a second. "You’re the new kid, aren't you."

Sherlock sighed deeply. "Obviously. You really are stupid. No wonder your girlfriend's cheating on you."

He was award with another shove against the locker. "Shut the fuck up," he spat.

"Get outta here,” the other warned John.

“Come on, guys,” John tried to reason. “Leave him alone.”

“We’ll leave,” One pressed his forearm against Sherlock’s chest and grumbled, “right after I teach him to keep his mouth shut.”

John really did want to stay calm, but these idiots clearly weren't responding, and John wasn't perfect. He dropped his friendliness. “Leave. Now.”

One scoffed. “Yeah, what are you going to do?”

“You wanna test me?” John cracked his knuckles.

They turned to John and examined him. With years of rugby and a knack for getting in fights, John knew exactly how he looked.

Finally, one of the boys grumbled, “Fine. l got better things to do.”

The other agreed, but first, he looked back to Sherlock with a sneer and told him, “watch it, Holmes. Your boyfriend can't save you every time.”

“Noted,” the teen flatly replied.

As the bullies trudged off, Sherlock straightened his shirt. It was now slightly wrinkled and a small drop of blood from Sherlock's lip rest in against the white fabric. He didn't even bother to push his curls away from his face. He looked at John with the same stoic expression he held in art class, but his eyes still shot into John's, making him feel uncomfortable. John noticed that skin looked slightly less pale than he remembered. Truly, Sherlock had a strange look to him.

John had expected a thank you, at least, but Sherlock gave him nothing. He turned back to locker and started to shift books.

“Sherlock,” he tested.

The boy didn't answer. He pulled a potato out of his backpack and pushed into the locker.

Really?

John was a little surprised that he was ignoring him...again. “Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn't I be? You did stop them,” he stated as if it were completely obvious, but John noticed that he was talking faster than when they first met.

“Well, yes,” John began. “but-”

“But what?” Sherlock interrupted. “What are you expecting from me? Gratitude? Praise? You helped somebody. Get over yourself.”

John shook his head in disbelief. “Are you kidding me?”

There a moment of silence before Sherlock sighed and pulled his head from the locker. “What?”

“I just helped you, and you’re still going to act like a child?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “A child?”

“Yes! I mean, you can’t be polite for five seconds? Not even a thank you?”

Sherlock, with a raised eyebrow, prompted, “Do you really need praise to help people?” John got the feeling that he knew exactly how to push people's buttons. Sherlock was already driving him crazy.

“No! Of course not.” He paused, his thoughts were getting tangled. He thought that the guy would at least be grateful, but no. He still looked bored out of his mind, and that only made John angier. The tension in John's head collapsed. “Why are you so rude?!”

“Why are you so nice?” Sherlock countered. He seemed like he getting angry, too.

John gaped. “You really need to question kindness? God, you're impossible.”

Sherlock scoffed. “What does that even mean?”

“It means-” John stopped himself. “You know what? Forget it. Just stay away from me.”

“Fine,” Sherlock spat. He turned back to his locker like nothing had happened.

John waited for a second and turned around. He needed to get to lunch and more importantly, away from Sherlock. He started to storm off, shoving his hands in his pockets.Behind him, he heard a whisper.

“Thank you.”

“I’m sorry?” John turn back, but Sherlock didn't answer. The boy shut his locker and sped off around the corner. John watched him go, feeling both angry and confused.

 

*******

 

Of course he was late for practice. He didn’t even have an excuse this time. First, he was talking to a girl(yes, he achieved that much), and the next minute, he was at least fifteen minutes late.

Gazing across the wide field, John spotted the boys, but they weren’t doing anything besides shoving each other around. Good, then, he hadn’t missed it. John rushed over, desperate to be there before anything started. On his way, he noticed how big the field really was. He knew the school didn't need this much land for rugby, and half of it wasn't even being used. Beyond the boys, the field extended out into open land where the grass was the slightest bit longer. Trees sprinkled the ground, offering shade around their perimeter.

John reached the group and was greeted by another aspiring player. “Running late?”

John looked up slightly to see his face. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Not a great start, is it?”

“No,” the boy laughed. “but you’re not alone. The coach isn’t here either, so I think you’re in the clear.”

John felt a deep relief wash over him. He was really was trying for a better start this time, but it wasn’t going as great as he wanted. At least he was safe from screwing this up.

“I’m Greg,” the boy said. “And you’re the new kid, right?”

“Yeah,” John smiled, extended a hand. “John Watson.”

Greg gave his hand a firm shake. With Greg’s height and confident composure, he appeared a natural leader. John began to wonder if he could actually make captian here.

“Are you any good, John Watson?” Greg asked.

He spoke a little bit too loud in John’s opinion. As for the question, it took him a second, but John realized that Greg was referring to rugby. “I’m al-” he began, but was cut off by booming voice.

“You’re John Watson?!” A arm slung around John’s neck, and a stocky boy grinned.

John smiled, partly from discomfort. “Uh, yeah. Heard of me?”

The boy took his arm off John and called out, “Hey, guys, come over here!” He turned to John. “You were the rugby captain at Whitfield, right?” His eyes were wide in amazement.

“Right,” John replied, feeling his irritation increase. “So?”

“You’re, like, a legend! You're going professional, aren’t you?” He spoke so fast, John was having difficult times registering his question. “Of course you are,” the boy continued. “You’re John Watson! You're gonna be captain here too. I know it.”

The other players started to gather, but none of them looked nearly as excited as the guy in front of John. The boy turned to them and announced, “This is John Watson!”

John gave a short smile accompanied with a nod. The other boys waved, but none of them really reacted to John’s name.

"I can't believe this!” The boy’s tone was so dramatic that John wondered if this were all a joke.

Finally, Greg stepped in. “Eric. Stop,” he demanded, and Eric listened. Without another word, he backed off. John was never given an explanation for what just happened, and he didn’t really want one. He was beginning to think that this was the weirdest school he had ever been to.

Nobody seemed to hold it against him, thankfully. The rest of the boys came forward and introduced themselves. Most of them were nice, and John actually began to think he would like it here. Maybe Sherlock was wrong. There are better days. For starters, he liked Greg, even if he was mildly jealous of him after hearing was the captain last year. John also thought that Mike was cool. He seemed like he didn’t want to cause trouble. In fact, the whole team appeared that way, a quality that his previous team did not possess. Of course, they weren’t perfect. John wasn’t sure about Seb, who mildly creeped him out. Still, he fought the urge to judge him after one conversation, but to be fair, the guy had these small eyes and a permanent smirk on his face that made John doubt if he was completely sane.

When the coach finally did show up, he gave excuses and an apology for his tardiness, and tryouts began. John knew he was getting on the team. While he didn’t know how Eric knew him, the boy was right when he said John was good. John was better than any player his previous school had seen. John’s only worry was that he would fall to number two with Greg in the picture. The guy exuded leadership. John only hoped he could compete with that. Even with his concerns, John performed excellently, and he didn’t even have to wonder if he made the team. When he watched the boys play, he realized that the greatness of their personalities did not extend to rugby. This team was bound to be average, but John still hoped he could change that.

After tryouts, he finished changing back into the school uniform when Greg approached him. “Hey,” John smiled.

“You think you made the team?” Greg asked. He was now in his own clothing too, but he wasn’t wearing the uniform, only dark jeans and grey t-shirt.

“Definitely.” John made it clear that he was absolutely certain of himself. “You?”

“Of course,” Greg grinned. “Hey, some of us are hanging out at Mike’s place. You in?”

John considered saying no. He did have homework and about a million other things to worry about. He then remembered what he was doing there in the first place. Things were supposed to be different this time.

“I have one question,” John said. “Will Eric be there?”

Greg laughed. “No, I don’t think so, but girls will be.”

“Okay. I’m in,” he smiled, shrugging his bag over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

 

It wasn’t a party by any means, and John was grateful for that. It was Monday, after all. Instead, it was just few friends hanging out. Everybody was friendly, but John wondered if they actually liked him. His doubts were eased when he and Greg were approached by a dark girl with wildly curly hair.

“Hey, Greg.” Her tone was kind, but John could tell she was a tough girl. Her toned muscles were exposed by a dark tank top, and despite the simplicity of her outfit, she looked, well, gorgeous.

“Sally,” he chimed. “Have you met John?”

She smiled and answered, “I haven’t.” She faced the blond. “Hi, John.”

“Hi,” John replied.

“You’re the fantastic rugby player we’ve all heard about?”

John grinned. “The best.”

Sally smirked, but Greg corrected, “Uh, second best, actually. I’m still here.”

John shrugged. “We’ll see.”

“A rivalry?” Sally inquired. “Maybe you’ve finally met your arch nemesis, Greg,” she teased. “I’ve heard he is pretty good.”

Greg scoffed playfully. “From who?”

“Oh, we’ve all heard about the whole “Eric” thing.” She stated, looking to John. “That had to be fun.”

John laughed. “I think I found my first fan.”

“Or your first stalker,” Greg joked.

“God, I hope not," John laughed.

“Oh, please. He wouldn’t be your first,” Sally put in, sounding slightly too serious.

John frowned. “What do you mean?”

Sally paused for a second, like she were unsure of what she was about to say. “Well, you know. Sherlock.”

Before John could say anything, Greg complained, “Come on, Sally. ”

“What? Philip says he watches John the in art all the time.” She was getting defensive. She looked to John. “Honestly, you should really stay away from him.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “You know he’s not a stalker.”

“Even if he’s not, he’s still weird.”

“Those are rumors that people like Seb make up. I thought you were better than that," he grumbled.

“Excuse me?” She warned.

Their conversation quickly escalated into an argument about their friendship. Soon, they nearly shouting at each other. John looked around for an explanation, but everybody was pretended like this behavior was normal. There was only one girl watching them, looking much calmer than John felt.

“Are they always like this?” he asked her.

“Sort of. They're like family,” she explained.

He nodded and introduced himself. “I’m John,” he said.

“Molly. Are you really friends with Sherlock?” She looked nervous with rosy cheeks and eyes that couldn't hold a gaze. They shifted around the room, only briefly meeting John's eyes.

“I hardly know him,” he admitted. “Does it matter? Is he famous or something?”

Molly blushed brighter and smiled warmly. “Sort of...He’s unusual,” she said. “and smart, and shy. People don't really like that about him.”

John nodded and guessed, “you're his girlfriend?”

The girl’s face brightened and her head fell further down, letting hair fall down her face. She giggled, and told John, “No, no. He doesn’t even have friends.”

That explained a lot, but John still asked, “Why not?”

Molly seemed hesitant to answer, and John didn't want to push her. “It’s alright,” he said. “you don't have to say anything. I understand.”

She looked up, revealing chestnut eyes. She smiled at him. “It’s not that,” she said. “It’s just that I don't know _why_. He never accepts them, I guess. He doesn't really tell anybody anything about himself.”

“Oh,” John paused. “So why do people care about him so much?”

She had to think about for a moment, but she answered, “Well, he’s a genius. He can you your whole life story by just looking at you.”

“What?" John laughed.

"Yeah," she nodded enthusiastically. "Some people--most people--don't like that about him."

That explained the bullying and the stalker thing, John supposed. "But your whole life?" he asked, still unable to even consider this as truth. "Nobody can do that. Nobody can take one look at you and and know anything.”

Molly smiled liked she had heard this before. With a new confidence, she said, “Sherlock Holmes can.”


End file.
